


Once, He Was Mine

by Lynxrider



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Drugged Sex, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Geralt is angry and hurt, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier is a sad smol bean, Jaskier is tricked, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Blame, Slut Shaming, Victim Blaming, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg is So Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28367286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynxrider/pseuds/Lynxrider
Summary: Jaskier had been happy. So, so happy.But of course, at no point in his life could he remain so. Once again, Geralt looked at him with loathing–and worse,disappointment–and it was all Jaskier's fault. All because, for one glorious moment of weakness, he'd believed that Geralt finally returned the level of love and trust that Jaskier had always given of himself.More fool him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have no idea. Enjoy the ride.

Jaskier was happy. 

He was _ happy, _ and just to reiterate it in the privacy of his own mind made him positively giddy. 

And why shouldn’t it? Sure, he was stranded in the middle of a mud entrenched mire of filth and decay, and he smelled nearly as bad as his surroundings. Which was saying an awful lot considering the ghastly smell was no doubt coming from desiccated  _ corpses. _ He didn’t even remember what his skin was supposed to feel like clean. Not to mention that he was pretty sure he could no longer feel his fingers from the cold, much less his poor toes. His clothes were long ruined–a shame really, because the precise shade of egg-shell blue he’d searched high and low for was a divine match of his eyes, if he did say so himself. Not that his lummox of a companion would ever mention it, but Jaskier was an absolute expert at spotting that near-invisible glimmer of approval, so rare it was a legend in itself. Yet, to Jaskier, it sang louder than the cheers of all his adoring fans showering him at once. 

Ah, but where was he? Yes. Jaskier was happy, despite all of those things–nay,  _ because _ of all of those things.

Even pulling his rather destroyed boot from the mud– _ again _ –didn’t dim his bubbly mood. 

“Fuck,” came the growl from behind a particularly nasty tangle of brambles. Nasty, because not only did the thorny black vines sport a thick layer of foul mud, but also fleshy bits of the drowners that had been blown to smithereens not moments before. 

Once, such a thing would have made Jaskier gag and possibly lose his last four meals. Now, he could only smile fondly as Geralt pulled himself from the weeds with a token grumble. The Witcher– _ his _ Witcher, if you please–was as bedraggled as a man could be. His white mane hung in wet, lank strands about his wide jaw, dripping with mud and rancid water and other unspeakable things. The rest of him fared no better, and Jaskier probably would have wrinkled his nose at the smell if he wasn’t already so disgusted by his own. Yet, that didn’t stop Jaskier from scooping up his dagger from the unfortunate tree it had been embedded in and swaggering over. He only stumbled once, which was a miracle considering how slick the ground was, but that was neither here nor there. His Witcher was there to catch him with a grunt, and Jaskier sighed like a swooning maiden as if he’d had every intention of throwing himself into Geralt’s capable arms at the first.

Geralt only sighed, hauling Jaskier upright and pointedly handing him his other boot that had been thrown sometime during the fight. Jaskier took it a bit sheepishly, remembering without prompting the argument they’d had when he’d bought them in the first place. Geralt wasn’t about to let him forget it either, not if that black glare had anything to say about it.

Ignoring the slightly disconcerting way Geralt’s eyes looked after he’d taken one of his potions, Jaskier sighed his most put-upon sigh. “Oh, alright, so they weren’t very practical, after all. But darling, they have  _ lutes _ on them! The craftsmanship alone–”

“Fat lot of good that did you,” Geralt growled, crossing his considerable arms. “They’re ruined now, and they almost got you killed.” 

“Nonsense,” Jaskier said lightly, brushing them off as if his hands weren’t just as filthy as his footwear. “They’ll be as good as new after a good scrubbing–and  _ yes, _ I’ll save them for towns only, stop scowling.”

But Geralt wasn’t done fussing, it seemed, because the dignified lines on his face only deepened. “You dropped your daggers again.” 

Jaskier did flush a bit at that. He hid it behind an affronted scoff. “Only one! And only so I wouldn’t fall face-first into this disgusting sludge you call dirt.” 

“Jaskier–”

“Oh, hush, I took care of it, didn’t I?” Jaskier said swiftly, side-stepping their usual argument. It was a dance they’d partnered many times over the years since the day Geralt insisted he learn to fight. If he was going to follow him around everywhere, Geralt reasoned, Jaskier had better learn how to defend himself because he wasn’t going to babysit him forever. Sweet, even if he framed it in the most insulting way possible. “Besides, you had everything well in hand. I hardly had to lift a finger!” 

Not strictly true, considering there were around ten drowners and they had been separated early on. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, mind–Roach had caught herself in an old rusted fence that none of them had seen until it was too late, too preoccupied trying to get through dangerous country unnoticed. That plan flew right out the proverbial window the second she panicked and managed to get herself hopelessly tangled. They’d been set upon almost immediately and separated soon after. 

Still, Jaskier had managed to kill a respectable two drowners to Geralt’s eight, even if one of them had only died because it fell on a sharpened stump (it still counted!). A vast improvement in Jaskier’s book, considering that in the past he’d have run squealing into the night rather than defend himself. Oh, how far he’d come. If his mother could only see his state now, she’d faint dead away! Especially as Jaskier wore the gore of his kill like a badge of pride!

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. Alright, perhaps not. It was still utterly appalling and he would be scrubbing at himself until he turned pink. Best leave the morbid pride to Witchers.

Jaskier knew he’d won when Geralt merely harrumphed and made his slick and sliding way back to a much calmed Roach. Well trained, that horse. She knew when not to draw attention to herself, that was for certain. 

As Geralt gently coaxed her from her rusted prison, Jaskier smiled softly at his back. Witcher, his Witcher. Oh, how far  _ they _ had come. It wasn’t so long ago that Geralt would have regarded him with disgust for his fumbles or try to sneak away in the night to be rid of him. Jaskier still remembered acutely the hateful words and surly looks, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of him. Yet that was all behind them now. Jaskier had persisted at Geralt’s side through the hardship and the _ muck, _ and his patience had been rewarded.

Jaskier still dreamed of the night when Geralt had finally allowed him into his bed. Vividly.

That was years ago now, and Jaskier still cherished every single mud-filled, cold, grumpy day with his Witcher as the precious, precious jewels they were. 

“C’mon, we’re almost to town,” Geralt grunted in that abrupt way of his, pulling Jaskier from his musings. Jaskier smiled brightly, snatching his hand away from the cord around his neck to brush at the front of his doublet casually. Not that Geralt noticed his slip in any case, already pulling himself up onto Roach after checking her for injuries. When Geralt held out his hand for Jaskier to take, Jaskier practically glowed with happiness, taking his rough, calloused palm and swinging himself up behind his love. 

“Ah, a  _ bath,” _ Jaskier crooned, propping his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. He breathed in deeply, imagining that he could smell Geralt’s unique woodfire-and-herb scent through the grime of the road. Of course he couldn’t, but Geralt’s essence was practically burned into his soul so deeply he could call it forth at will. No matter. He would  _ thoroughly _ enjoy uncovering that singular scent once they’d found a decent inn, and he told his Witcher so. 

As Roach made her careful way through the bog, Jaskier pressed as close to Geralt as was feasible, filth be damned. And if Geralt spurred Roach to go just a little bit faster, Jaskier didn't mention it, pressing his smile into the soft skin of Geralt’s neck. 

Between the press of Jaskier’s chest to Geralt’s broad back, a small pouch lay snug against Jaskier’s heart–a secret for now. But its contents would be unveiled soon and Jaskier would take that final step that had eluded them for too long.

It didn’t matter that they would never have a proper ceremony. It didn't matter that it meant that Jaskier would be living on the road for the rest of his life, or that he would never lay with another again. It didn’t matter, because Jaskier had his Witcher. And he was going to bind them together in every way possible, until death did they part. 

* * *

The bugs resumed their nightly chorus as the Witcher and bard disappeared from sight, the din rising and falling with the wind bristling through the trees. It would be hours yet before the necrophages slunk from the shadows to feast on the remains of their fallen brethren, dismembered parts already sinking into the brackish water. The moonlight streamed piteously through the thick brush, barely lighting the way for weary travelers. 

A figure glided along the road, graceful and serene despite the tenuous stability of the ground beneath its feet. Its features flashed pale in the moonlight, and long, midnight hair hardly obscured its nudity. Not that it mattered. It had no need for human propriety, especially since the parts that humans so preciously guarded were not adorning it now. 

Its form shifted back and forth as it contemplated, muscles growing and shrinking and becoming incorporeal with the currents of its mood. The changes went unnoticed to the creature, who finally settled on soft and androgenous as it crouched close to the ground. It smiled, brushing slim, delicate fingers over the dark stain against the grass. Bringing fingers to its thick-thin-somewhere-in-between lips, it savored the flavor of blood, taking it deep inside. 

It tasted like sweet sunlight and bitter-fresh grass. The creature’s mouth water with desire. Delectable.  _ Virile _ . Yes, yes, this would do nicely. 

Standing to its full height, the shadow glided further along the road until it found a strand of pure white hair. It wrapped the gleaming strand around its wrist and whispered secrets into its skin. The creature swelled in size until its weight pushed it down into the mud. Its skin darkened and its hair lightened until it shown as silver as the pale moon. He opened honey gold eyes and examined the road for tracks, pupils widening from their cat-like slits to reflect the light. 

It was time to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I've got a vague plan, but as usual, it will probably veer off the tracks almost immediately. Drop me a line if you're interested in seeing this continued, I adore hearing from you all :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so lots of smex in this chapter. Also the second half contains noncon, so take care of yourselves, you have been warned. See the end notes for tags and summary.
> 
> If you want to skip the second half, stop at 'It truly was a thoughtful gift...'
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt of Rivia was not a gentle man. 

Jaskier wasn’t unaware of this. It was one of the main things that drew him to Geralt in the first place. Although to be fair, Geralt wasn’t at all Jaskier’s usual type. In fact, it was safe to say that while a specimen such as Geralt would always have turned Jaskier’s head–he was only human, after all–Jaskier would never have considered pursuing the man romantically. 

Geralt was too much...everything. Too big, too brutish. And while the man wasn’t illiterate or unintelligent by any means, he did not tend to appreciate the higher arts any more than Jaskier appreciated the subtleties of swordplay or concoction making.

It wasn’t just his personality either, but his overall _size_ that made him unlikely _._ Jaskier was a tall man, larger and broader than most on the continent–no doubt because of his superior breeding and sheltered childhood. Starvation and desperation tended to stunt one’s growth, after all–so when Jaskier found himself in the elusive position of being smaller and so much weaker than his partner, it was a culture shock of the highest degree. 

Until Geralt burst into Jaskier’s life like a battering ram. And then Jaskier discovered that he really, _really_ liked that too. 

Case and point. When the door to their rented room slammed shut and Jaskier was likewise slammed against it, he found that he had very little to complain about, especially when too sharp teeth closed over the apex of his neck and a low growl rumbled through his entire body, shaking him to the core. 

Jaskier let out a sound somewhere between a desperate whore and a ravenous animal when Geralt pressed his considerable girth against him, grinding his hips against Jaskier’s in short, brutal ruts. Jaskier couldn’t even bring himself to be ashamed of his own desperate behavior. Another thing about Geralt–he was the only one who had ever drawn this more animalistic side out of Jaskier, something he had never indulged in with other partners. Especially not covered in foul swamp stench and other unspeakable things as they were. Jaskier was a refined gentleman, after all, a scholar and an artist of the highest caliber. He did _not,_ as a general rule, go traipsing in the mud, murder monsters, or fuck brutally against a door like a _savage!_

Yet Jaskier couldn’t care less about any of that when Geralt’s teeth found that spot on his shoulder that lit his nerves on fire, gooseflesh exploding over his skin. It was too much. It was not nearly enough. 

Jaskier’s moan of desire became one of frustration as cloth and leather got in the way of feeling _Geralt’s skin against his right now._

Geralt’s chuckle against his pulse rumbled low and dark as Jaskier squirmed his hands between them, yanking and fumbling with Geralt’s armor. It had been torture on the way to the village, Jaskier eager to have his witcher. The pouch burned against his chest like a magic charm, urging him on with the sweet promises of forever. Jaskier couldn’t wait to begin one of the most important nights of their relationship, something that he had been waiting impatiently for since he’d finally gotten ahold of what he’d needed. 

It was only pure luck that Geralt hadn’t been around when he’d received a small package from a runner, an old friend–his _only_ friend–of his from his family’s estate, who’d shared with him a knowing grin and a swift ‘good luck!’ that had warmed Jaskier from the inside out with excitement and a joy he’d never thought he’d ever experience. Not Jaskier, of all people.

Jaskier had had a _plan_ for tonight, and it involved Geralt being in a very, _very_ good mood. But what started as Jaskier teasing Geralt, whispering filthy nothings into his ear as they rode along, soon turned into Jaskier grinding into Geralt’s irresistible backside with every lurch of the horse beneath them, swayed by his own words and promises. Geralt had fared no better. Who would, with Jaskier pressed against them and offering all sorts of sultry things? 

Of course, there were other things Jaskier wanted to whisper in his witcher’s ear. Romantic, sappy things. How Geralt filled his heart with warmth just as thoroughly as he satisfied his body. Odes to the precise angle of his jaw and the masculine beauty that defined him; his grace, his scent, his strength of character against a world that only spat upon him. How Jaskier didn’t deserve such a selfless and beautiful man, how he would spend the rest of his life worshiping Geralt if he could. 

But Geralt was not a gentle man. It was...not what he wanted to hear, even if it was just the tip of the iceberg of what Jaskier would say. Jaskier couldn’t count the number of times he had tried and been snarled at over the years. Eventually, he’d learned to tamp down that side of himself. Hurt, at first, but understanding more and more the longer he’d observed his witcher. 

He understood, he really did. Geralt had led a long, violent life, where friendly touch was limited to his very few–emotionally stunted themselves, Jaskier thought with a sniff–friends and the occasional whores who begrudgingly served him when he’d reached even his prodigal endurance for seclusion. And there were plenty of _unfriendly_ touches, oh yes. A truly heartbreaking level of violent, hatred filled touch that a noble man such as Geralt never _ever_ deserved. 

So Jaskier let him keep his distance. Jaskier let him brush aside his hands and withdraw from his gentleness and soft words, no matter how much it– _discomfited_ Jaskier to do so. Because the rest of it? Having him, being able to call Geralt his? Completely worth it.

Instead, Jaskier expressed his longing and adoration in his performances, with ballads of prowess and heroism–and yes, beauty and love. He never quite knew if his melodies reached Geralt. He never knew if the man realized that his every joyous performance and mournful note was for him and him alone.

Jaskier liked to think that he did. 

But it was not as if Geralt didn’t express his love to Jaskier in other, more subtle ways. It was something Jaskier knew deep in his bones and his body, with every breath he took. It was the way Geralt protected and took care of Jaskier, sheltering him from the worst of the world, even though Jaskier never strictly needed it. The way he marked him and never left Jaskier unsatisfied, ever an attentive lover. The way he showered Jaskier with little thoughtful gifts that took Jaskier’s breath away, always left where he would find them instead of given directly; a new string for his lute when he’d complained about fraying, or the lavender petals he’d found in his pack when his favorite scent finally ran out. Geralt always denied he’d done any such thing, but it was as obvious as the sun bursting over the horizon for Jaskier, a man for whom such romantic gestures burned like the most addictive of drugs.

And he had been going through withdrawals for much too long.

The fact that Geralt didn't turn Jaskier away spoke volumes in itself. Perhaps how he’d ceased to grumble about Jaskier’s noisiness spoke more. And that was enough for Jaskier, for even if Geralt could never bring himself to utter a sound of affection, his actions spoke to Jaskier loud and clear.

But the sex had never changed, even though their relationship irrevokably had.

Jaskier gasped in triumph when he finally got the buckles to release on Geralt’s leathers, shoving them off the man’s shoulders. Geralt, for his part, did nothing to help, pressing bruises into Jaskier’s sides and into his neck. “Come...on, you great brute…! Off!” 

Geralt hummed, amused by Jaskier’s ineffectual shoving, much to Jaskier’s mounting frustration. The man was a mountain and budged no easier. “This is what you get for teasing.” Geralt rolled his hips playfully and Jaskier swore, the dull friction not nearly enough. Heat pooled in Jaskier’s core and sweat beaded his skin despite the fact that the fire had not been lit and the room was bitterly cold. Jaskier keened as Geralt’s teeth found a particularly tender spot, already abraded and sensitive, the shock of burning pain only making him hotter. Resigned to the teasing, Jaskier curled his fingers into Geralt’s tangled hair, petting gently in stark contrast to Geralt’s roughness. A well of affection rose in Jaskier’s chest as he swiped a tender finger over the sharp edges of Geralt’s jaw, delighting at the rasp of stubble against the pad of his thumb.

Geralt growled, seizing his hands and pinning them against the wall behind them. Jaskier bit his lip, fingers twitching with a desire to reach out again, but a stern look from Geralt had him keeping his hands to himself. The war with Jaskier’s instincts was solved when Geralt spun him around, Jaskier’s offending hands needed to support himself against the wall lest his face slam into it. Jaskier gasped, wincing slightly as his palms smarted at the manhandling, but quickly forgot about it when there was a distinctive rustle behind him. Geralt jerked Jaskier’s pants over his hips to tangle around his feet before pressing his hard, impossibly hot–blessedly _bare_ –body against the length of Jaskier’s back. They moaned in tandem as flesh finally met bare flesh and Jaskier’s voice only increased in volume when a rough, battle-worn hand closed around his aching shaft. Geralt’s breath washed hot and humid over the nape of his neck as he began to move against the cleft of Jaskier’s ass, his hand jerking him at the same rough pace. 

It was dry, and burned more than a little, but the increasing heat between them, the slide of sweaty skin against skin, and the heady vibrations of Geralt’s imperceptible moans more than made up for it. 

“This is not–ah–exactly what I had in m-mind when I–” Jaskier gasped between thrusts, pressing back into Geralt’s hips just as much as he ground into his fist. 

“Mm, later,” Geralt growled, not even bothering to slow his pace, and Jaskier was positive that Geralt didn’t understand his meaning at all. Jaskier wanted him inside, sure, but neither of them had the patience for that just now. Jaskier was more talking about, you know, an actual bed and soft sheets and a warm fire and rose petals would be ni–Jaskier’s thoughts shattered when Geralt twisted his hand just _so_ , the man playing him like an instrument as Jaskier’s voice reached a note even he hadn’t known he as capable. 

Orgasm was approaching Jaskier fast, the heat inside of him reaching a fever pitch and Jaskier _ached_ to touch Geralt, to turn around and drag him into his arms and whisper worship into his skin. His fingers clenched against the wall and he hung his head, letting the fantasy play out, letting his voice sing aborted adoration as his cock jerked in Geralt’s hand, so close, so close. Geralt rumbled his approval as he felt Jaskier’s precipice begin to overtake him and sped up his pace. Jaskier cried out, shuddering at the rough handling and delicious burn of Geralt’s stubble against his shoulder, needing just a little. Bit. More!

Jaskier flinched, adrenaline washing over him like a bucket of ice water when the sound of a fist against wood pounded through the room, right next to his face. 

Geralt’s movements stopped abruptly and he jerked Jaskier away from the door, shoving him behind his larger frame and growling at the offending wood. 

“Master witcher! Master witcher!” A woman’s voice filtered through the wood, high and frantic. 

_“What!”_ Geralt all but roared. Jaskier stumbled in place, trying to get his pants back on, hopelessly tangled around his feet as they were. His breath was coming in rapid bursts, forcing his body back under control as the unseen woman let out a startled shriek at Geralt’s anger. But soon enough she was pounding the door again, more rapid than before. 

“Master witcher, please! I need your help, my daughter, she-she!” 

Geralt and Jaskier exchanged a look, Geralt’s eyes dark and Jaskier resigned. Jaskier made a gesture, like, ‘well, go on,’ and Geralt sighed, rolling his face to the sky as if beseeching the heavens for patience. After a moment, he fixed his leathers with jerky, yet efficient fingers before marching to the door and wrenching it open. 

An elderly woman stumbled through, surprised. Her dirty face was streaked with tears and her clothing was ripped and stained, as if she’d been running through the brush. She flinched at the thunderous expression on Geralt’s face, but rallied soon enough, grasping onto his chest like a beggar in the streets, beseeching. “M-master witcher, please! My daughter has been taken by a beast, I-I-” She gasped, out of breath and wizened face splotched with desperation. “You must save her!” 

Jaskier could see the war in Geralt’s eyes as he gazed down at the frantic woman, and Jaskier understood all too well. It was a job that would result in no reward. Geralt was tired, drained from travel, and frustrated that his release was snatched away from him. And yet Jaskier’s witcher had a beautiful conscience that could not be ignored, one Jaskier could not love him so if he did could. Someone genuinely needed his help, and that was not something Geralt could look away from. 

Geralt glanced over his shoulder at Jaskier, regretful grimace on his face and Jaskier knew that their evening was over. Swallowing his disappointment, Jaskier reached for his discarded shirt and daggers, but Geralt shook his head sharply. 

“No, I’ll take care of this. You stay here,” he said shortly, picking his own weapons off the floor. 

Jaskier paused. “But–”

“It’s a werewolf,” Geralt explained impatiently. “I can smell it on her. You would only get in the way.” 

Jaskier’s jaw clenched, a swell of hurt flooding his throat. But he couldn’t argue with that, not really. Maybe he could help Geralt with the occasional necrophage, but werewolves were beyond him and they both knew it. Still, Geralt didn’t have to say it like _that._

But time was of the essence and didn’t allow for arguments. Geralt unceremoniously slammed the door in the woman’s face and snatched the back of Jaskier’s neck, pulling him into a firm kiss. He pulled back all too soon, honey eyes filled with promise and regret. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

Jaskier pressed their foreheads together, sending him his fiercest glare. “Be safe,” he said with all the feeling he could muster. He lifted his hand to brush against Geralt’s jaw, but Geralt pulled away from him, mind already on the task at hand. He pulled the door open and demanded the woman show him the way before it closed behind him with a final sharp report. 

Jaskier stood in the cold room, half-naked, shivering and alone in the dark, and sighed. On unsteady legs, he shuffled over to his shirt and the pouch that had been ripped off along with it, fingering the soft leather and the cold lump within. Pulling the drawstrings, he allowed the object to fall into his palm, the metal ice against his damp skin. 

A ring glinted in the pale moonlight from the window, indistinct in the gloom, but Jaskier knew it so intimately that he could recall the details with clarity. His great-grandfather’s wedding ring. It was one of the only heirlooms he’d cared to keep, his family crest as familiar as the strings of his lute beneath his fingers. 

His was the only legacy that Jaskier cared to remember from a family that, as a whole, he could not stand. His ancestor was Jaskier’s inspiration to pluck up the courage to leave home; proof that, despite what his family had brutally beaten into him over the years, he could be _free_. Fitting that Geralt would wear his great-grandfather’s ring, as he was the very man who finally, miraculously granted Jaskier true freedom…

That is, if he ever actually got the chance to ask him.

Inhaling past the acute disappointment in his throat, Jaskier tucked the ring away and stood, placing it reverently on the bedside table.

“Well…” he said to the empty room. He looked around and noticed for the first time that there was a tub filled with water, a small stone hearth beneath it with wood, ready to be heated. At least he would get a bath, even if it was alone. 

Suddenly Jaskier was exhausted, the energy that had been buzzing beneath his skin washing away in the tide of fatigue as any arousal he might have been experiencing waned to nothing. His movements were slow and sluggish as he lit candles and got the fire going. The room slowly but surely heated from ice cold to pleasantly toasty and Jaskier melted in relief as he huddled close to the fire. They’d been on the road for weeks without respite and he was aching all over from sleeping on the hard ground and bathing in icy cold streams. Not that he was necessarily complaining...much. He had gotten his wish to journey with his witcher, and he wouldn’t compromise that for anything. 

But Jaskier was a creature of comfort and had absolutely no shame about taking it where he could. The only thing that would have made this better was if Geralt had been able to stay…

Jaskier moaned pornographically as he slipped into the steaming bathwater. He barely noticed the sting against his various cuts and abrasions in the bliss of his body relaxing utterly. He sprinkled some of Geralt’s lavender petals in the water and inhaled deeply, letting the scent suffuse his every pore. It truly was a thoughtful gift.

Jaskier ducked his head beneath the water and started working on getting clean. Every swipe of soap against his skin felt like heaven as he wiped the grit and dust away and soothed every sore and ache. Satisfied that he was as clean as he was going to get–he would clean his fingernails later, he hadn’t the energy–Jaskier closed his eyes and sank into the water, allowing his muscles to unlock. 

And as he relaxed, he dreamed of large hands, of a deep voice infused with love…

He savored the soothing scent and imagined gentle fingers carding through his hair, cradling his jaw and tickling down his neck. He arched into the sensation like a sunflower toward the light, starving for it. A low moan vibrated in his chest as he imagined Geralt’s calloused fingers petting down his shoulders and his sides, the water rippling to tease his peaked nipples. Jaskier’s cock twitched with interest as a new wash of arousal took him faster than he thought possible in his exhausted state. He sighed, taking hold of it and stroking lazily. Geralt wouldn’t be back for hours at best, their night already ruined. Jaskier tried not to let it get him down, though. It wasn’t the end by any means. He would get another chance…

The water was so warm and the smell of lavender seemed to be getting stronger, a wash of dizziness making Jaskier’s chin droop downward. Hm, he’d underestimated the strength of the flowers, the scent tingling in his nose almost sharply. His lashes fluttered rapidly, never truly opening as the room spun lazily about him. 

The hands in Jaskier’s imagination were running through his hair again, tipping his head back with soft, tingling tugs. He could almost hear the water rippling in the room as a ghost of breath drifted over his lips. Jaskier exhaled in delight, fisting himself lazily as a soft brush against his cheek made him shiver. It felt like Geralt was right _here,_ hovering over him and running those large hands down his chest and just beneath the water, teasing. Jaskier’s breath hitched.

“Geralt…”

“Mhm?” a low voice rumbled. 

Wait. What?

Jaskier’s eyes snapped open, vision blurring and coming into focus much too slowly. The sight that greeted him stole his breath away. 

Geralt was indeed hovering over him, eyes honey-gold and dilated onyx pools. His hair was loose, white tresses dripping with moisture from the bathwater and skin gleaming in the flickering firelight. Beads of water slid like diamonds down his jaw, neck and gloriously muscled chest to disappear into the tub that–Jaskier blinked rapidly, uncomprehending–was filled with so many flower petals he could not see beneath them. Strangely enough, they were orange, and not the purple of Geralt’s gift. Had he gotten more flowers from somewhere? Wasn't he supposed to be fighting a...thing? A whatsit? 

“Geralt, what…” Jaskier shook his head. How was he _here?_ Hadn’t he just left? And Jaskier might be tired, but he would have definitely noticed if he’d come back dumped a bunch of flowers in the bath and _sat on his lap–_

“Shh,” Geralt whispered, brushing a thumb over Jaskier’s brow, and if Jaskier weren’t so confused he would have wept at the tenderness of it. As it was, he was having a hard time not going cross-eyed with the heady scent of the steam muddling his thoughts. “Just relax. I want to take care of you.” 

“You...do?” Jaskier said haltingly, trying to focus his vision. Were there...more candles lit? They were flickering in his peripherals, almost seemed to be floating about them. “Geralt, I feel kind of–ah!” Jaskier threw his head back as Geralt took him in hand, pumping as slowly as Jaskier had been. It felt _incredible,_ and heat rushed to Jaskier’s face, doing nothing for his train of thought. 

“Mmm, you have such lovely thoughts.” Geralt whispered lowly into the still air as Jaskier came apart beneath him. “Do you want to treat him gently, Jaskier?” 

_“Yes,”_ Jaskier gasped, not exactly sure what it was he was saying, just knowing that he wanted _more._

“Come to bed with me, little bluebird,” Geralt said, a soft smile on his face as he rose from the water. 

Jaskier stared stupidly at the ceiling for a moment before he scrambled to follow, almost throwing himself onto the floor in his haste to get out of the tub. The water sloshed all over the place but Jaskier didn’t give a single damn, hazed eyes locked onto the figure of Geralt spread out on the bed–and even more flower petals, where had they all come from? But it mattered little in the face of the beauty that was Geralt splayed against the sheets, silver hair mussed and so soft looking he could cry. Geralt’s cock jutted out proudly from the apex of his hips where he slowly stroked himself, his lightly furred thighs parted in clear invitation and eyes so heavy with desire Jaskier felt he could drown in them. 

Wait...Geralt wanted _him_ to lead? That was...new. Not something they’d ever done before. Jaskier swayed where he stood, something niggling the back of his thoughts. This was...odd. Geralt hardly liked being touched except in those rare moments where he let Jaskier help tend a wound or wash his hair. And he had never, ever offered this.

But even those slight tugs of unease could not drown out the roaring in Jaskier’s ears and another heady wave of cloying sweet scent scattered what thoughts remained.

Jaskier practically collapsed on top of his witcher, not even noticing that the two of them were somehow entirely dry in his haste to touch every inch of coveted skin he could. And touch Jaskier did, running his fingers over every ridge and scar and soft patch of skin he’d never been allowed before. He drank in Geralt’s vociferous moans like a parched man in the desert, whispering fervent prayers and words of adoration into the muted air around them. Jaskier waited for the inevitable snarl and demands for quiet, but they never came and Jaskier was drunk, drunk on him. The lights flickered, his vision hazy on the edges. Jaskier didn’t notice.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasped from somewhere far away and Jaskier bucked his hips at the sound of his name on Geralt’s husked voice. “Make love to me.” 

Jaskier choked on air. Make _love?_ No crude words or impatient growls intruded on the soft tones of Geralt’s dulcet voice, and Jaskier could hardly comprehend it. “Yes,” Jaskier whimpered through another sharp surge of arousal, “Anything, my sweet, my darling, anything for you…” 

He leaned back, reaching for the bedside table where he’d left his satchel but gasped as Geralt’s hand folded over his cock and held him in place. Jaskier shuddered, reaching hand faltering and hitting the sheets. “W-wait, Geralt, I have to get you…oil! I have to get th-the oil...”

“I don’t need it,” Geralt said with calm amusement, and Jaskier gasped in shock as the head of his cock was guided to Geralt’s entrance–Geralt’s very _wet_ entrance. 

“Wha–” Jaskier said dumbly, eyes struggling not to cross as he watched his cock slip against Geralt’s slicked skin at Geralt’s leisure. Jaskier’s arms were trembling, barely able to hold himself upright. “When did you…” 

Geralt’s other hand tipped Jaskier’s chin back with a delicate touch, forcing Jaskier to look him in the eye. Jaskier stopped breathing. The witcher was practically glowing in the wan light, his skin porcelain smooth and honey eyes glinting unnaturally bright. Jaskier blinked rapidly, trying to bring his vision into focus, but the halo around Geralt did not diminish. It was still Geralt, but as if in a dream, his features enhanced, perfected as if brushed by a master artist. And...didn’t he have some scars…? Another fissure of unease clenched Jaskier’s abdomen, but it was banished a moment later as Geralt’s muscled legs wrapped around his hips and drew him _in._

This time Jaskier’s eyes did cross as he entered Geralt in one long, blistering slide. He whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensations he had not experienced in a long time, not since he’d decided that the only one who he would ever touch again was the man beneath him. And though Geralt was not shy about taking him into his mouth, he had never allowed him _this_. 

“Ah,” Geralt moaned, nuzzling Jaskier’s working throat. “You love him so very much...it’s delicious.” 

“Yes, yes, love you so much, so much, Geralt, please…” Jaskier babbled nonsensically, holding still lest he come too quickly. He didn't want this to end so soon. He didn't want this to _ever_ end. It was soothing something in Jaskier that he didn't even realize was jagged, a part of himself that he had long suppressed for Geralt’s sake. But now he could let it free, and Geralt _wasn’t stopping him_. He pet his witcher reverently, every part of him he could reach. He peppered his damp skin with kisses and praise. He keened as he pulled him as close as he possibly could, touch starved in a way that he hadn’t even realized he endured. 

“That’s it, you don’t have to hold back,” Geralt rumbled. “Do what you wish. Fill me up with your seed, bluebird.” 

Jaskier moaned loudly and began to move. Slowly, gently, achingly sweetly and Geralt responded beautifully. He matched him thrust for thrust, rolling against him and around him as they moved slickly together, the noises from their voices and bodies obscene. Their rhythm built, egging each other on, until the slap of skin on skin was the only sound aside from their heavy breaths.

Jaskier’s chest was swelling with emotion, tears he didn't notice running down his face, as he was hit with a sudden and intense _longing_ so fierce it ripped a sob from his throat. Geralt faltered in his movements as Jaskier did, until Jaskier fell still, shaking and overwhelmed. He wanted this forever. _Forever._

“Shh, what is it, what’s wrong?” Geralt whispered, but Jaskier shook his head. Geralt crooned, running his fingers gently through his hair. “Ah, I see...there’s something…” Beneath Jaskier, Geralt twisted and grabbed something from the bedside table. Jaskier’s eyes widened in shock as he revealed his pouch. A small spike of adrenaline pierced through his haze and Geralt froze, eyeing him carefully. But another wash of scent slackened Jaskier’s muscles, his thoughts hazing once again. 

Geralt opened the pouch, small silver ring falling against his palm. 

“You want to put this on him?” Geralt asked, curious as he eyed the gleaming band. 

Jaskier shuddered, nodding numbly. “I want….forever. You forever. I want...say yes. Yes.”

Geralt nodded, bemused. “Yes,” he said agreeably and made to slip the ring on his finger. His _middle_ finger. Jaskier made an incomprehensible noise of protest, taking the ring from him with clumsy hands, only to slide it onto Geralt’s ring finger himself. He sighed in pure bliss and adulation. It fit perfectly. Geralt said...yes….

He swayed, nearly falling to the side, but Geralt righted him. “Mm, we are running out of time little bluebird. Stay awake for me just a little bit longer…” With that Geralt continued the mind-numbing roll of his hips, seeming to suck Jaskier in. Jaskier shook, gasping helplessly as he fell back into the rocking rhythm of their bodies. He was graceless, rutting unevenly and clumsily on jelly legs, but Geralt didn’t seem to mind, whispering sweet encouragement into his sweaty neck. Jaskier lost himself in it, the heat building and building until it was as untenable as the spinning of the room around them. 

Jaskier cried out weakly as his release finally drowned him in a rush of unbearable heat. He collapsed onto Geralt’s chest, overtaken by it. Geralt’s thighs tightened and his arms wrapped around him, holding him in place with his superior strength. Not that Jaskier was going anywhere as Geralt’s body milked him with grasping pulls, seeming to suck every ounce of seed from his shuddering body. 

Jaskier made a distressed sound as it lasted longer than it should–than he could possibly endure, sanity fraying at the edges as his pleasure slipped abruptly into overstimulation. But still, Geralt held him, even as fear trickled into Jaskier’s awareness when he struggled to withdraw and could not. His vision darkened and he looked into Geralt’s face desperately, beggingly, but could only cry out when he looked into the eyes of a stranger. 

Familiar gold was replaced with a kaleidoscope of shimmering color, Geralt’s grin too sharp, his hair too dark, and _Jaskier still couldn’t move,_ oversensitivity sliding into _pain_ as his entire being was awash with cold fear. 

Then another wave of blistering pleasure battered against his brittle sanity, splintering his vision and making him shake with exertion. Jaskier couldn’t even breathe through the intensity of it, and the stranger crooned, petting him reassuringly with fingers he couldn’t feel. Jaskier felt like his _essence_ was being taken from him, pulling and yanking and stealing his very breath from his lungs. 

Finally, just when Jaskier thought the imposter would take his life too, it ended and Jaskier whimpered as his cock was allowed to slip free. Though the stranger still held him down, Jaskier couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried his hardest. His vision spotted and he could feel his consciousness slipping away from him, but he couldn’t pass out, not here, with this–this– 

“Who...what...let go–nh–”

“Thank you, little bluebird,” a voice he did not recognize came from Geralt’s lips and Jaskier felt nausea swell in his throat. No, not Geralt. The... _being’s_ face had changed, an androgynous figure lying beneath him with midnight hair and smug, kaleidoscope eyes. He’d–he’d–oh Gods he’d–

Jaskier had no strength left to resist as the imposter rolled him onto his back and wiped him down achingly– _repulsively_ –gently. Jaskier struggled to stay awake, but the cloying scent of the flowers around him was pounding through his head like the worst hangover, dragging him into oblivion. 

The stranger left a last lingering kiss on Jaskier’s lips and Jaskier didn’t have the strength to even twitch in protest. 

“You have given me so much, little bluebird. Here is your reward.” Jaskier couldn’t even register the words before the stranger’s hands were placed on his chest. “Forever, with your precious witcher.”

Something in Jaskier’s core seized and flared outward and spots burst behind his eyes. Jaskier convulsed with a whimpering gasp...and knew no more.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: drugged sex, Jaskier thinks it's Geralt and then realizes it's NOT, nonconsensual body modification
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! Next chapter will be all the delicious ANGST and I can't wait~
> 
> Happy Superbowl day, my American readers :)
> 
> Send me some sugar 🥺 T~T love you guys~


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